Prologue
Dominic
The hardened faces of the other bosses of Boston’s crime families scowl at me around the table.
We’re holding a meeting to discuss the impending war that my brother foolishly started. Of course, the one family that needs to be here isn’t.
I stare at the empty chair that Viktor Sokolov, Pakhan of the Boston Bratva, should be seated in. For fuck’s sake, he and I are the only ones who are needed for this meeting. The war is between us. But he isn’t here.
I don’t think he’s even interested in peace, even though he’s already gotten his revenge.
Roman, my younger brother, wrongfully attacked the Bratva. They retaliated, but it isn’t enough. We unintentionally declared war. If I can’t find a way to end it, then the destruction and death on both sides will be devastating.
Lorenzo Del Vecchio, the Capo of the Boston Mafia, clears his throat. Typically, it’s me who starts the meetings. Even though I’m one of the youngest in the room at thirty-seven, Itend to be the mediator. But, since it was The Syndicate that fucked up, I keep quiet.
“We all know why we are gathered today. The Syndicate wrongly attacked the Bratva, and the Bratva retaliated. We need to discuss this war and what it’ll mean for our families,” Lorenzo starts.
“We have nothing to do with this war. And we intend to keep it that way,” Cillian O’Connell, head of one of the numerous Irish Mobs, states.
I look at his fellow brethren to see how they respond. As expected, they all nod in agreement.
Sean Callahan leans back in his chair as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. “We’re not looking for a fight. Especially not with the upcoming wedding.” He shoots a hard gaze at Kieran Donovan.
Ah, I guess there’ll be another Irish wedding coming up. I’ll have to see if I can send a gift and avoid the event altogether. They have far too many weddings. The Irish Mobs are constantly shifting. Marriage alliances combine families, then fallouts between brothers break them apart. It feels as though each time the leaders meet, there are different Irishmen at the table.
Except for the one that’s always here.
Malachy Finnegan.
The old bastard’s been around since before my dad started the Syndicate. He looks as weathered as his age. But he’s still stern as ever.
“This is not the Irish’s fight. None of us will step in. We will never align with the Bratva, on principle alone, but we also can’t back the Syndicate since your family carries all the blame,” Malachy Finnegan speaks on behalf of his kin.
The Irish have tiffs amongst themselves, but at the end of the day, they’re family. They share Irish blood, and all respect the elder, Malachy.
I swing my gaze to the Cartels at the table. Their allies are seated next to each other across from their sworn enemies. The Capos of the Cartels of each country have strong allies and even stronger enemies. Unlike the Irish, they’re much less likely to form alliances. They’re dangerous, and I tend to avoid working with them.
Esteban Herrera, don of the Mexican Diablos Llorando Cartel, sitting between Alejandro Ramírez, don of the Peruvian Fuego del Sol Cartel, and Luis García, don of the Guatemalan Víboras Venenosas Cartel, whispers to them. Those three tend to stick together. They don’t compete in imports and seem to respect each other.
Ángel Santos, don of the Venezuelan Ángeles del Infierno Cartel, ironically named Angel despite his gruesome nature, and Emiliano Torres, don of the Colombian Portadores del Dolor Cartel, oppose them. They’re an alliance that I don’t involve myself with. Honestly, I try to stay away from the cartels altogether, only interfering if they break our stringent rules.
Even if they offer help, I don’t want it. I don’t trust them, and they play by a different set of rules.
“We will back the Syndicate in this war against the Russians,” Esteban offers with a sly grin.
I know the Russians compete with some of the drugs those three deal. It’s not an offer on my behalf at all, and I know they’ll stab me in the back the moment I turn around.
“Then we will have no choice,” threatens Ángel.
I knew this was coming. They’ll forever oppose each other.
“You scum of the earth Venezuelans,” spits Alejandro. “No tienen ni columna ni lealtad.Manga de cagones.”
“Amarre esa lengua, Peruano, o amanece sin ella.” Emiliano reaches into his waistband as he spits out Spanish threats.
I don’t need to speak the language to know the situation is escalating.
The Peruvian stands to his feet so quickly, his chair topples.
